by Mary Renault
“Julian Fleming,” said Hilary. “No, but really—”
“I beg your pardon?”
A little annoyed with herself, Hilary said, “I only meant that by all the laws of human compensation he ought to be called Henry Pratt, or something of that sort, don’t you think?”
“You mean he reminds you of someone called Pratt?”
“Yes,” said Hilary desperately. “I expect that’s it.”
The trunk call was through before they had finished tea. After listening nostalgically, over the wire, to the muted noises of an Oxford street, she learned that Mr. Fleming had gone down in the previous year. In spite of this—which put her guesswork some three years out—the porter sounded, when he heard her business, quite personally upset. He gave the address as Larch Hill, near Lynchwick, Glos., and begged that she would convey to Mr. Fleming his best wishes. As soon as she had disengaged the line, the telephone rang again; she left it for the nurses, and went back to the Matron’s room.
The Matron, in the meantime, had decided that she herself ought to have taken the call, and had to be thawed out with care. Just as the operation could be said to have succeeded, there was a knock at the door.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Matron. But I thought you’d like to know that the mother of the new patient, Fleming, has just rung up. She says his horse has come home without him, and she thought this would be the best place to inquire. She seems very much upset. What would you like me to say to her?”
“I’ll speak to her myself, Sister.” The Matron rose, with conscious poise. At the door she turned, with a geniality under which prickles were faintly discernible. “Well, fancy, Dr. Mansell; after all that clever detecting of yours. What a waste, wasn’t it?”
Hilary suppressed an offer to pay for the call to Oxford, and smiled nicely. Left alone, she experienced an odd feeling of flatness. Helpless, nameless, and defenseless, he had given her a feeling of proprietorship which, when she noticed it, struck her as singularly silly. He hardly looked the kind of property to be lying unclaimed for long. She had better look him over thoroughly and make good her escape, leaving the Matron—who would enjoy it—to cope with the swarm of loving relations, fiancées, and candidates on the waiting-list with whom, of course, the place would presently teem.
She opened the door of the little room, and went in.
Almost total darkness greeted her. For a moment bewildered, she then recalled hearing, at a lecture, that this treatment had obtained at some remote pre-Cushing era of the past. She groped her way toward the window.
Her hand was on the blind cord when she was arrested by a sound behind her; a smothered, laboring breath which, perhaps because of the gloom, gave the impression not only of struggle but of acute fear. As she turned to listen again, a voice which was no more than a whisper said, “No.”
Hilary twitched the blind; it shot upward, letting in a clear evening glow of reflected sun. His eyes were open, and turned, it seemed, in her direction, though it might only have been toward the light. They were wide and fixed; before, she had pulled back the lids to examine the pupils, but she seemed to be seeing them now for the first time. Their Celtic gray was startling against his black lashes and brows. Whether he saw her at all, it was impossible to say. His face was set in a stiff mask of suffering, but the eyes and forehead were not contracted as if physical pain had been behind them. She thought that he must be experiencing some kind of hallucination; but the sight of his distress conquered her professional instinct to observe more. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and, finding his good hand under the blanket, took it in both her own.
“It’s all right,” she said, leaning over him. “Everything’s all right. There’s nothing there.”
He drew in a long, gasping breath; she saw the Iris of the eyes contract, trying to focus, then relax into blindness again. His fingers, at first loose and unresponsive, closed round hers and tightened, slowly, into a crushing grip. She could feel the bones of her hand grinding together, and began seriously to wonder if he would succeed in fracturing one of them. Too much interested to be fully conscious of the pain, she sat watching his face. The fixed stare was leaving it and his breathing was easier. Presently his grip on her hand became something that could be comfortably tolerated. She was about to withdraw herself when she saw that he was trying to speak.
At last he said, with difficulty, “Where are you?”
“Here. Can’t you see me now?”
“Yes.” But his eyes were looking through and beyond her. She had known people before (but they had been children) who would not admit that they could not see.
“I’ve opened the window,” she said. “Look, it’s light.”
He narrowed his eyes for a moment as if aware that some endeavor was expected of him; then he closed them, and tightened his hand a little on hers. She saw that his face was damp with sweat, and wiped it with a towel. He turned toward her, and appeared to sleep.
Time was passing, and she had a good deal to do; but she thought she would stay a little longer. In this twilight phase, which might be short, observation might be interesting. His face had lost the look of sculptured impersonality it had had when his unconsciousness had been complete, and had now a kind of forlorn peace, like an exhausted child’s. They had dressed him in faded flannel pajamas, rebandaged his head, and slung up his arm to fix his collarbone. He looked very neat and clean and young.
A spasm crossed his eyes and forehead, so sudden and sharp that the pain seemed to move visibly over them. She thought that to slacken the bandage might help, and unpinned the end. He reached up a hand in resistance; she put it firmly aside,
“What the hell are you playing at,” he muttered, “mucking about?” And, more irritably, when she continued, “Don’t shift that, you fool, I’m on in two minutes.”
She said, “I’ll only loosen it; it’s too tight.”
“What’s the idea? I always do myself. If he wants it done straight, he can put in someone else. I tell you—”
“Sh-sh. It’s all right. Quiet now.” She had finished, and laid her hand restrainingly on his forehead.
His face relaxed. “It’s you,” he said; and then, with the exaggerated feeling of delirium, “I’m very, very sorry. Terribly sorry. Stay with me now. I lost you. I’m very sorry. Let me stay here. I’ll hold you, can I? Don’t go away.”
His hand wandered over the counterpane. She put hers into it; he groped at her sleeve, and tried to drag himself toward her. She supported his head quickly, laid him down again, and to quiet him sat with his hand clasped in hers. Someone had turned on a radio for the patients’ tea hour. It was Purcell; far too loud; in a minute she must see about it. He went on murmuring, under his breath. “It’s all right now. Don’t let me fall,” and something that sounded like, “The pool’s low today.” Then, after a longer pause, in quite a different voice and so strong that it startled her: “Art thou afeared? Be not afeared, the isle is full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes—sometimes—” To her own surprise—she had not known that she remembered it—she said gently, “And I awake, and cry to sleep again.” He smiled, seemed about to correct her, then shut his eyes and lay still. But, just as she was making up her mind to go, he opened them again. She knew at once, by the accommodation of the pupils, that now they were linked with the brain. He was looking, with trustful incurious acceptance, into her face.
She became cautious; if he was becoming rational, he must be left in quiet. Getting out her notebook, she framed quickly the routine questions. “How are you feeling now?”
“Fine.” She saw the pain move across his brows.
“What else do you feel?”
“A bit sick. It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Julian.” He sounded dimly surprised.
“Yes? Julian what?”
“Oh, sorry. Julian—Richard—Fleming.”
“Do you know where you are?”
&
nbsp; “Not really.” He moved his head, flinched, and shut his eyes.
“It’s a hospital. But don’t worry, you’re doing quite well. Do you know why you’re here?”
He looked at her appealingly. She could see that he was in pain, and thought, Of course he wonders why I’m badgering him with stupid questions. One takes things so much for granted. He has speaking eyes, as they say.
“I shan’t have to bother you much more. In a moment I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No, please. Please don’t go.”
“Do you know why you’re in hospital?”
“I took a toss,” he said slowly, “I suppose.”
“Do you remember it?”
“No.”
“Now don’t worry. Take your time. Just try and tell me the last thing you remember.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes,” she said soothingly. “I live quite near. Do you remember starting out from home?”
“I said I’d be back for tea.” She checked his movement.
“Where did you go?”
“Down the bridle path—and—and out on the Lynchwick road.”
“And then?”
“There’s a gate lower down.”
“Did you open it?”
“I heard a car coming.”
“And then?”
He shut his eyes. “I don’t know. You came then.”
Hilary wrote: Period of amnesia uncertain. No witnesses. Replies suggest clear recollection to within few seconds of accident. Period of unconsciousness, no history, evidence vague, 40-60 mins.
She looked up from the notebook; he was enjoying the relief of silence, with closed eyes. It seemed cruel to disturb him again; but it might be important, later on, to have assessed any mental impairment now.
“I’ve nearly finished. Tell me where you live?”
He gave her, with gentle weariness, the correct address.
“How many brothers and sisters have you?”
He drew his brows together. He was, she saw, growing irritable. This did not surprise her; his evident attempt to conceal it did. She repeated the question.
“Not any. Just the two of us.”
“You and—?”
“My head aches rather.”
“I know. I’m going to give you something for it. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, of course.” For a moment he seemed about to smile.
This would not do. To test his alertness, she took the stethoscope out of the pocket of her white coat, and hung it by the earpieces round her neck.
“Tell me,” she repeated with patient clear insistence, “who you think I am.”
“Why, you—you’re—” It was plain that his own doubt both distressed and shocked him. Strain was the last thing she wanted. She said. “I’m a doctor.”
He turned his face away on the pillow.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you any more questions. You can go to sleep now.”
He had still the look of someone seeking for a known word which remains absurdly elusive. Presently, however, something more urgent took its place. He was getting to the stage when people begin to think of sending messages. Very likely, she thought, he’s just remembered his girl; sometimes it happens that way.
“Yes?” she said encouragingly.
“Look out. I’m going to be sick.”
“Here.” She caught up the enamel bowl from the locker, and steadied his head. Movement and disturbance made things worse, and he was very sick indeed. She took his weight on her shoulder, protected his injured arm, and felt under her hand the loose, boyish softness of his black hair. When he had finished, and she had put the bowl out of the way, he made no attempt to move; probably he was exhausted. She put her arm behind him and settled him back on the pillow again.
“Now keep quiet, or it will start again.”
“Yes, I will, I’ve been sick twice already. You have to get properly tight once, to see. It’s a bit overrated, I think. The only thing I—”
“S-sh. Go to sleep.” He was getting to the excitable stage, which must not be allowed to develop. Picking up the case sheet, she wrote him up for an intramuscular injection of luminal.
“You can have one more pillow, now.” She got it from the other side of the room, and fixed it correctly under his shoulder. It seemed that he had composed himself for sleep; but when she stood up, he caught at her sleeve.
“You’re not going away?”
“Not far. Talking’s bad for you, so soon.”
“Stay with me. I won’t talk.”
“Another time. You’re going to sleep now. I’ve ordered you an injection; you’ll feel better when you’ve had it.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep.” His eyes had opened, widely, and fixed themselves imploringly on her face.
“All right,” she said, humoring him. “You needn’t till you feel like it. But you simply must rest.”
“I’d rather go back with you.” His fingers had clenched themselves on the white drill. “I called, and she wouldn’t answer. She went away.”
Good heavens, thought Hilary, where DOES this place get its nurses! “Don’t worry, I’ll see that doesn’t happen again.”
“It was bound to happen. If I’d known you were there—”
He must be sat with all night, she thought, and no bones about it. I’ll see the Matron. Or the next thing anyone knows, he’ll be getting out of bed.
“That’s all over now. It was only a bad dream. But I’ll stay a little if you’ll promise to be good.”
He murmured, hazily, “Like we were before,” and turned over on his side.
She decided to ring for the luminal and give it herself, so as not to disturb him. Long before it had had time to act, he had fallen asleep.
She remained a few minutes longer, looking down at him and wondering what, in a normal state, he was really like. By the standards of her experience, he had behaved with commendable restraint; patients with this degree of concussion had, as a rule, few inhibitions. They wept, they shouted, they were explicit about the unmentionable. He must have a nice, innocent little subconscious, she thought.
His hand had loosened in hers; she slid her fingers gently away, and tucked in the bedclothes behind his back. As she bent over him he murmured, “Good night, dear.”
Chapter Three: “I UNDERSTAND HIM TOO WELL!”
“… AND YOU WILL MAKE IT QUITE CLEAR to the night staff, won’t you, Matron, that I want to be called if there’s any sign whatever of raised intracranial pressure? Hourly temperature, of course, half-hourly pulse and respiration. If his pulse falls below sixty or his respirations below sixteen, or if his temperature starts to climb, and particularly if he becomes drowsy …”
The Matron assented at intervals, with growing resentment. She had read all these instructions on the case sheet and was already convinced that she had known it all beforehand. Well, it would be Dr. Dundas’s take-in in three days. “Yes, Dr. Mansell, Night Sister is quite accustomed to acute work.” (And so am I, young woman; I was learning it when you were wetting your nappies on a rubber sheet.)
The unspoken part of the responses was not lost on Hilary. She smiled and said, “Of course, Matron, I know. You mustn’t mind me; head cases are rather a bee in my bonnet. Night Sister’s so considerate, I know she hates to give one an unnecessary call. But this case happens to be rather interesting, so she needn’t mind.”
The Matron acknowledged this tacit apology with a gracious inclination; and they moved toward the front door. But it had already been opened. The maid stood beside it, hesitating. The visitor came past her toward them.
Hilary knew at once who she was. The correct tweeds, halfway between sporting and urban; the discreetly toning cashmere jumper with the permissible small pearls; powder, but no lipstick; fading fair hair becomingly, but not fashionably dressed, under the inevitable Henry Heath; the tense concealment of emotion before the maid. Hilary recognized the breeding, but not the resemblance she h
ad half expected to see; and received also a general impression of graciousness, a little conscious perhaps but real. A deeper level of her mind was aware also of that natural self-repression which manifests itself, through sorrow or trouble, in a faint defensive hostility.
“How do you do? You are the Matron, I think. I am Mrs. Fleming. May I see my son?”
The Matron embarked on the routine of reassurance, sympathy, and exposition. She received few private patients, and her lowered self-confidence made her a little pompous and genteel. Hilary stood ready for her turn; and was aware that her presence was being felt as an unexplained intrusion. If she had been a man, her function would have been instantly apparent; she had ceased to think about such things, but, under the skin, continued to feel them.
The Matron was saying, “But I’m sure you’d like to talk to Dr. Mansell, who’s in charge of the case.”
“Yes, indeed. Is he with my son now?”
“This is Dr. Mansell.”
“Oh. I’m afraid I didn’t—How do you do?”
Her dismay was baldly evident. To Hilary it seemed that she had barely attempted its concealment. She fought her own resentment, as she always did; finding it, in this stale situation, strangely fresh and strong. Ashamed of herself, she took particular pains; was simple and clear without the air of talking down, hopeful and confident without dishonesty about risks.
Mrs. Fleming relaxed neither her strain nor her reserve. “I see. Thank you. May I go to him now?”
“I think it wouldn’t be very wise today. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, for a few minutes, would be a safe promise, I think. It’s just in these early stages that absolute quiet is so essential. It does seem unkind, I know; but we’ve proved over and over again that it’s much the best.”
Mrs. Fleming’s face altered. It took on the look which every doctor and nurse knows well; the look of someone confronted with a soulless and impersonal organization, whose members have lost touch with the humanities and require to have them explained in words of one syllable.
“Dr. Mansell, please let me see my son. I can assure you I shan’t fuss or excite him. I know how one should behave in a sickroom; and besides, I understand him far too well.”